Everafter
by celticmusebooks
Summary: There is an ancient Vulcan proverb: Sometimes the having is less pleasing than the wanting. An unexpected marriage proposal has Christine questioning her idea of happily ever after.
1. Chapter 1

_I own nothing of the Star Trek multiverse save my undying love. _

_Thanks to my awesome beta Djinn1 -any mistakes within are mine alone!_

"Might I join you, Doctor?"

Christine Chapel looked up from her medical journal to find the lanky Enterprise First Officer, and former love of her life, holding a plate of grilled vegetables and a steaming cup of te'i.

She made a quick visual recon of the immediate area, certain that he was addressing his query to someone else, anyone else but her. But in fact, they were the only two people in the Officer's mess.

"Certainly, sir," she replied, feeling herself stiffen into the practiced military posture that ten years of Starfleet service made as instinctive as blinking or breathing.

"At ease, Lieutenant," he responded, the barest trace of a smile ever so briefly warming the usually implacable Vulcan mask. "We are not on duty, Christine."

'Christine?' What in the hell? She fought the impulse to pull out the small mediscan unit from her kit and give him the once over. In all of the time she'd served with him he had never deigned to use her first name without prompting. Strange, that even after so many years, that particular slight still held such a bitter sting.

"You are frowning," he said, the raised eyebrow underscoring his puzzlement. "You are displeased with something?"

"Are you feeling… alright?"

"I am quite well, thank you, and yourself?"

"I'm fine…it's just…you…"

"I?" he asked, ratcheting the eyebrow up another notch.

"You called me…Christine."

"That is your name, is it not?"

"It's been my name for the entire time you've known me, but I can count on one hand the number of times you've used it." She experienced a faint sense of embarrassment that she'd allowed the hurt to color her tone.

"V'Ger..." He paused, shifting his gaze down to the table, and for a moment seemed singularly fascinated by the wisps of steam rising from the fragrant Vulcan tea.

"V'Ger—V'Ger what, -he told you my name?"

He responded with a most human sigh then leaned back in the chair, bowing his head and steepling his fingers against his lips in an almost meditative pose as if planning a chess move.

"My experience with the entity calling itself V'Ger helped me to see that my quest to sever my connection with my human nature was illogical. I have since been…endeavoring to…regain a sense of connection with those around me."

"So, using my first name, you're what, endeavoring to 'regain a sense of connection'…with me?"

"Yes."

"One problem there, in case it's slipped your memory, we were never 'connected' in the first place."

"You have always treated me with great kindness, and respect, Christine. I have never properly acknowledged what that has meant to me. I hope that you might consider me your friend."

"Your friend, you want us to be friends?"

"You do not wish that?"

She considered half a dozen snotty comebacks, but there was something open, something vulnerable in his eyes that brought her up short." Yes, Mr. Spock," she responded softly and knew without question it was the truth, "of course I do."

"Spock, Christine, my name is Spock."

"Spock, I'm Christine." She held out her hand inviting a handshake as if they'd been two strangers meeting for the first time.

He accepted the proffered hand, with a surprisingly firm grip.

The rest of the dinner was lighthearted and quite unremarkable. Much to her surprise, they chatted amiably about the article she'd been reading, upcoming experiments in the lab, the myriad changes to the newly refitted ship. Apparently, Spock did not subscribe to the Vulcan custom of consuming a meal in silence.

Len and the Captain joined them later and they talked into the wee hours of gamma shift, old friends catching up on the changes of the past few years. _Pleasant_, she smiled at her reflection in the small fresher mirror as she readied herself for bed; it had been a most pleasant evening.


	2. Chapter 2

"Vulcans don't date, Ny."

"Well call it what you will," Nyota responded with a mischievous smile as she entered the code for the Officer's mess into the turbolift control panel. "You've got the whole ship talking, even the Captain has mentioned that the pair of you seem to be joined at the hip."

Christine chuckled at the image of herself and Spock attempting to man both the Bridge and Sickbay as hybrid conjoined twins.

"The only place we're joined is the labs, and I can assure you that human and Vulcan body parts have remained separate at all times."

"Well that's just a crying shame, girl, 'cause that man has some _fine_ body parts."

"We've been working together, really Ny, nothing more."

"Working, hmmm, from where I was sitting it sure looked like the two you were having dinner together, and from what I've heard it's every night."

"I'm sorry to pop your bubble, but there's absolutely nothing romantic going on between us. We work in the labs after shift, and then grab a late bite to eat afterward."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. We're friends, nothing more, and you know what? I like it that way. Seriously, why can't people just mind their own damned business?"

"Well here's my stop. I'm meeting Sulu and Scotty for dinner. Would you like to join us?"

"I'd love to but I'm on my way to the lab-don't start Ny."

"Have a nice time with your 'lab work,' Chris… and don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Christine sighed and silently railed at the indignity at once again being the target of interest on the Enterprise grapevine. It had been bad enough during the fist mission, the pathetic lovesick little nurse with her hopeless crush on the enigmatic Vulcan First Officer. It it had been the stuff of cheesy romance vids, and just the kind of drama the ship's rumor mill loved. What was it in human nature that so gleefully fed on the misfortune of others?

Ironically, now that she had let go of the romantic fantasy of him and was really getting to know Spock, she was beginning to find the real man, a man she genuinely liked and respected. They were friends now, and she wasn't going to let a bunch of nosy busybodies take that away from her.

She arrived at the lab to find Spock entrenched in the latest phase of testing protocols for the vaccine they'd been developing. Over the past six weeks they had forged a dynamic partnership in the lab; the diversity of their approach to a given problem, and their complimentary skill sets had produced a body of work that was already garnering notice in the very highest levels of the Fleet's scientific community.

He acknowledged her arrival with the slight up tick of his lips that Christine had come to think of as his post V'Ger smile. She scrubbed in quickly and took the station he'd set up for her.

Christine popped the microchip with the most recent round of testing data into the viewscreen.

"You are smiling, he said, rising and moving to her workstation. "Am I to assume that this last batch was more successful?"

"See for yourself." She leaned back and took a sip from the ceramic stasismug beside the terminal. Good lab partners set up your experiments; great lab partners knew exactly how you liked your coffee and had a fresh hot cup ready and waiting. Spock was a great lab partner.

She experienced a visceral, almost perverse pleasure watching the death of the virus on the viewscreen For just a moment she imagined herself as an ancient Celtic warrior princess wielding an enchanted sword, dutifully, and unmercifully, obliterating the legions of her sworn enemy. She tagged each of the frames, "PSI 2000 Starfleet Vaccine Study Phase II". If Spock was aware of the irony of the two of them being assigned this particular project he had not let on.

The damn PSI 2000 incident, that had been the start of it all. The entire crew of the Enterprise had been infected by the strange alien virus. Hikaru Sulu ran around the ship half naked brandishing a rapier like the missing Musketeer, and Kevin Riley had commandeered the ship's comm. system and serenaded them for hours on end with a criminally off key rendition of what was apparently the only song he knew. Hell, Spock and Kirk almost let the damned ship crash into the planet, but all people remembered afterward was Christine Chapel declaring her mad, passionate, undying love for the ship's First Officer.

And then there was the soup, plomeek to be precise. It had not been a particularly appetizing color in the bowl and was far less appetizing when liberally applied to the wall outside of Spock's quarters. He'd not eaten in almost a week and unaware of the true nature of his problem she'd thought a Vulcan delicacy might improve his appetite. But, as she'd learned later, his "appetite" hadn't been for food, his hunger was for the exotically beautiful wife waiting for him on Vulcan. Of course, Leonard and the Captain had front row seats for the whole fiasco. After all, what would be the point of total and utter humiliation without an audience?

Hennoch, Platonius, Gol, the universe had been sending her a message and after half a decade she finally "got" it. With great effort she had moved on with her life, had grown both as a person and in her profession. She was no longer the naive love-struck nurse waiting for a prince to come and take her away to live happily ever after.

"Would you care for some dinner?"

Almost if on cue her stomach grumbled and there was a flash of amusement in his eyes.

"Apparently so," she responded with a gentle laugh as she hurriedly tidied up her workstation.

As she set her tray down on the table Spock selected, she felt a pang of relief that the small dining room was empty. She was still smarting from Nyota's scrutiny and was glad they could enjoy their dinner without giving the ship's busybodies fuel to feed the flames.

"Is that your dinner, doctor?" Spock asked with the ubiquitous raised eyebrow.

"Yes it is, and you can haul that thing down to half mast."

"Thing?"

"That Vulcan eyebrow thing, I used to think it was cute, now it's just annoying."

"Cute? I assure you, doctor that Vulcans are not prone to cuteness."

"Agreed, and there's nothing wrong with my dinner. It's what I feel like eating."

"French fried potatoes and chocolate cake?"

"They were out of bacon."

"As a physician shouldn't you be modeling healthy eating habits?

"Let me clue you in on a little trade secret, my Vulcan friend: doctors rarely do what they tell their patients to do-and it's not chocolate cake, it's a brownie."

"I stand corrected," he responded, tapping his index finger softly against his lips and affecting a serious expression, as though he had been forced to rethink the Tenets of Surak.

Christine took a playful swat at him, delighting in the newfound ease growing between them. They chatted amiably throughout the meal, their conversation, as always warm and convivial.

"Oh my God, did you just laugh?" she asked, dropping her half eaten brownie back on the plate. "Can Vulcans actually laugh?"

"As I did just laugh, and I am Vulcan, one might extrapolate that to mean that Vulcans can laugh. Although as I am genetically half human, I do not believe the data would hold up to scientific scrutiny. Vulcans are capable of mirth, Christine, particularly with extreme provocation."

"So, you think that a seven-year-old child being terrified that she was going to be zapped into oblivion is extremely funny?" She attempted her sternest glare, but, based on his self assured grin it was obvious he wasn't buying it.

"You sound like Doctor McCoy, the transporter is a completely safe method—"

"I was seven-years old, you big doofus. I'd never even seen a transporter before. All I knew was that the people ahead of me in the line were going up onto the pad and disappearing into thin air."

"It is difficult to understand the concept of rejecting technology. On the surface it seems illogical, and yet there is something about the purity of such a simple way of life that is strangely appealing."

"It's not like we lived in caves," she said with a laugh. "The cultural preserves were about finding a balance between technology and maintaining the historical treasures and character of the area. Vulcans won't eat meat from the replicators, even though it's not the flesh of an actual animal. Couldn't that be seen as rejecting technology?"

"A good point," he said with gentle nod. "There are cultural aspects of our societies that are so ingrained we no longer think to question them."

It was strange, but Christine couldn't remember exactly when their dinner conversations had shifted from journal articles and experiments to topics of a more personal nature. "Do you want another french fry?"

"Yes, thank you. They are significantly more palatable than I had assumed." He reached across with his fork and transferred several fries to his plate before liberally dousing them with p_oshau bar-kas._

"I said 'fry' singular."

"Would you like some back?"

"With that stuff on them?" she asked regarding the garnet red crystals with unveiled distaste. "The last time I had Vulcan Fire Spice my head almost exploded."

As always, at precisely twenty-four hundred hours Spock rose from the table and returned their food trays to the recycler. Christine didn't remember exactly when he'd begun the practice of walking her back to her quarters. One night they'd been engrossed in a discussion of the integrations of Thyrillian number theory into the highly controversial Agen particle acceleration hypothesis when they had arrived at her door and spent another quarter hour chatting in the passageway until she could no longer suppress her exhausted yawn and bid him goodnight. She'd assumed that her quarters must have been on the way to his own, and was surprised a few weeks later to learn that his quarters were in fact on the other side of the ship.

Tonight they were arguing one of the finer points of Jemel's Treatise on Exobioethics, and the clinical applications of Berthold rays. Christine was steadfastly defending her views, despite Spock's persistent attempts at logically defusing her arguments point by point.

"Well," she said with a soft laugh as her door swished open, "here we are, so I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree. Good night, Spock."

She was halfway through the door when she heard him say, "If we were married, we would not be forced to face this constant necessity to end our conversation."

As she turned back to face him it seemed as if the universe shifted into some heretofore unknown gear. All known laws of physics had been summarily suspended. He was speaking to her, at least she could see his lips moving but she couldn't understand what he was saying.

She was unsure of how much time actually passed before she finally felt her heart begin beating again. He'd stopped speaking and was staring at her intently as if waiting for some sort of response.

"It is the most logical path, Christine, do you not agree?"

"Logical…" she stammered struggling to get her brain and vocal apparatus on the same page.

"Very well," he said, nodding tightly. "I shall see to the necessary arrangements."

She watched dumbstruck as he walked down the passageway and disappeared into the turbolift. The door swooshed closed behind her as she moved purposefully to her desk and removed a copper foil wrapped bottle from the bottom drawer. She pulled off the silver cord that held a small card that read: "Congratulations, Doc. I knew you could do it! Len." She opened the bottle of vintage Kentucky bourbon and poured herself a generous glassful. Dropping into the overstuffed chair next to the desk she took a long drink.

"What in the hell just happened?"


	3. Chapter 3

Christine awakened barely ten minutes before shift with the absolute queen mother of all headaches, a lovely parting gift, no doubt, from the missing half of the bottle of bourbon on her bedside table. Within minutes she'd had a quick sonic shower and pulled on a clean uniform. She fished a detox tab from her medicine cabinet, twisted her hair into a makeshift, but regulation, French knot and sprinted for the turbolift to Sickbay.

"Good Morning, Doctor Chapel." Kirk flashed a quick smile as he stopped the lift doors from closing. "I guess I'm not the only one cutting it close this morning."

On any other day she would have found James Kirk's broad Iowa farm boy smile incredibly charming, but at that particular moment she was focusing all of her energy on keeping the contents of her stomach in her stomach.

"Captain," she said, fighting another wave of nausea. The detox tabs weren't nearly as effective on alcohol as synthehol, hopefully, she'd be able to lift a packet of the clinical grade tabs from the pharmacy without Leonard noticing.

"I hear congratulations are in order."

"Congratulations, Sir?" The motion of the turbo lift triggered a brief attack of vertigo and she grabbed onto one of the side rails to steady herself.

Kirk's eyes seemed to be dancing with amusement and for a moment she wondered how chipper he'd be feeling if he knew just how close his perfectly polished boots had come to being hurled on by his ACMO.

"No need to be coy, Chapel, the cat's out of the bag. Spock told me the news last night."

Cat? Bag? Spock? What the hell? What "news" could Spock have possibly shared that could have plastered that ridiculous grin on Kirk's face at oh six hundred hours? And why, for the love of all that's holy, had she been drinking on a night when she had early shift? A furtive pinch to her forearm ruled out the most obvious theory that this was some sort of bad dream.

But somewhere, hovering on the edge of her consciousness there was something about Spock, something about Spock and last night? If she could just think for a minute she felt sure she would figure it out. The dream, she'd had the most bizarre dream about Spock. They had been standing in the passageway outside of her quarters and he had asked her to marry him. Damn, she was dumping out the rest of that bourbon when she got off duty.

"It's been quite some time since I've performed a marriage ceremony," Kirk said, chuckling affably. "I guess I'll have to use the next two days to brush up on my Vulcan."

Marriage ceremony? Vulcan? Okay, seriously, what the hell? _'I will see to the necessary arrangements.' _ Okay maybe it wasn't a dream and apparently Spock wasn't wasting any time.

"Two days?"

"Your wedding, Chapel."

"My wedding…in two days, in two days I'm getting-married?"

The rest of the trip to Sickbay was a blur. She had a vague recollection of Kirk prattling on about how happy he was for the two of them but her next clear memory was the soft click of the lock scant seconds before waving the white flag and surrendering the contents of her stomach to the basin in her office fresher.


	4. Chapter 4

"What do you mean you 'don't know'? How can you not know something like that, Chris?"

"Could you please keep your voice down, Leonard? I swear they can hear you in Engineering."

She was certain that her face was as a red as a cherry on the top of this hot freaking fudge sundae of a morning.

"Come into my office, I'll engage the privacy screen. How can you not know if you need a contraceptive implant? Are you already…is that why you and that pointy eared, green blooded…has he knocked you up?"

"Knocked up?" McCoy's words snapped her back into the moment like a bucket of ice water down her back. "No, I'm not pregnant, Len, but thanks so much for asking."

"Well then, why this rush job wedding, Chris? What in blazes is going on with you two?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Leonard."

"Well darlin', for someone who's finally hooked herself the big fish you don't seem very happy."

"I'm not exactly one who did the hooking. This whole thing is his idea. I guess I'm still processing it all."

"Well don't take too much time, young lady. You'll need to decide about the implant in the next couple of hours. It takes at least twenty-four hours before…well, you know, before the honeymoon."

"I don't know if there's going to be any sort of honeymoon. I mean…I don't even know if he …can…outside of the seven year mating cycle."

"The two of you haven't discussed that?"

"It hasn't come up."

"Did you try to get it up?"

"I'm not dignifying that with an answer."

"So you haven't…anything…nothing…no make out sessions in the biolabs."

"No, nothing like that. This whole thing just came out of the blue. We were taking about bioethics and then he sort of proposed."

"Sort of proposed? And you, what, 'sort of" said yes?"

"I didn't exactly say yes…the whole thing is kind of a blur."

"Were you drinking? Don't give me that look, I saw you pocket the detox tabs."

"Actually, the alcohol abuse came later."

"But you're going to marry him, right? Isn't this what you've always wanted?"

"I guess… I mean, I did love him for a long time."

"But do you still love him? Do you still want to spend your life with him, Chris? That's the question."

"I'm not sure I even know what love is anymore, Len."

"Well, little lady, you've got less than thirty-six hours to figure it out."


	5. Chapter 5

Christine hastily navigated the stream of jovial well wishers lying in wait outside of Sickbay, fending them off with a nod and mumbled excuse of "things to do' making the normally short trip to her quarters in just short of one half hour. Once securely ensconced within the familiar confines she stripped off her uniform in favor of a pair of stretchy yoga pants and a soft t-shirt. She fought the temptation to polish off the rest of Leonard's gift, and dutifully emptied the expensive liquor down the sink in the bathroom then tossed the bottle into the recycler, before breaking out her secret stash of Perugian chocolate.

There was a soft beeping sound and barely perceptible vibration emanating from her hip. Adopting a better safe than sorry platform, she'd gone ahead and had Len implant her with an ovulation inhibitor. She ran a curious finger along the tiny bump. There was no tenderness; the implant was secure and functioning properly. In a few days the bump and tiny bruise would be gone.

In a few days…In a few days she would be married to the man who had once been the love of her life. Why didn't she feel…happy…excited…something, anything. This was her dream come true, right? Wasn't this her fairy tale ending? Maybe she'd missed the part in the story where Prince Charming tells the princess that it would be logical to get married so they could finish their conversation about the ethics of using Berthold rays in the treatment of Pendure syndrome_._

Christine retrieved the padd Spock had sent her this morning which "should answer any questions concerning the marriage ritual." Based on the length of the long-winded tome, it should answer every conceivable question from the Big Bang to Jendrom's End of Time Theory. Spock was apparently quite the thorough little wedding planner_._ Not really surprising. Vulcans might be short on romance but they typically brought a remarkably high level of expedience and efficiency to all of their endeavors_._

She was unable to suppress an amused eye roll as she scrolled through a particularly lengthy section that began "Long before the time of Surak…" Seriously, when was he expecting her to plow through all this crap?

There was a diffuse nature to Vulcan discourse, a sort of oddly nuanced indirection that relied on a mysterious synergy of implication and inference-"reading between the lines," as her mother used to say-that was incredibly frustrating to a human accustomed to simply speaking her mind.

Skimming through the massive treatise she felt a pang of regret that she'd dumped out the remainder of the vintage bourbon. It would have made the task infinitely more palatable if she could have downed a shot each time she was forced to read the word "logic." She made do by polishing off the rest of the chocolate as she scrolled through several hundred screens searching for the section covering the actual marriage ceremony.

According to the book, it was, in fact, a long standing Vulcan tradition for the bridegroom and his family to handle all of the arrangements for the wedding ceremony, which certainly explained the overarching dearth of romance in the proceedings. She rolled the alien phrase on her tongue, _Koon-ut-kal-if-fee-_ Marriage or Challenge, with typical Vulcan efficiency they'd conveniently managed to incorporate the option for divorce right into the marriage ceremony.

It was hard to forget the sight of Leonard beaming back up with the Captain after Spock's wedding on Vulcan. The Captain, lying near death on the biobed, badly beaten and bleeding and Leonard, frantically barking orders, blood, regenerators, cardiac stims, she'd been terrified that they'd lost him, but like a cat, James Kirk apparently had nine lives. Even harder to forget was the broken look in Spock's eyes when he'd come to Sickbay believing that Kirk was dead, believing that he had killed his Captain. That look had been like a knife through her own heart. There had been rumors later, and Leonard had made occasional allusions to what had occurred on Vulcan, but now it all made sense.

She already knew from med school that Vulcan males had a seven year mating cycle, though she'd been able to learn little else. The Vulcans themselves shared precious little data on the phenomenon, even with Starfleet Medical, citing Federation cultural privacy statues. It was only within the last few years that they had even acknowledged the existence of the cycle.

For some reason, Leonard had felt obliged to fill in some of the blanks as he implanted the microscopic contraceptive. In the case of Spock's previous marriage, his petite Vulcan bride with the perky tits and impossibly perfect cheekbones had taken a pass on the marriage and instead gone with the rarely invoked option of Kal-if-fee, challenging Spock's right to consummate the marriage by having him fight Kirk to the death. Ah, those wacky Vulcans and their ever so logical happy hi-jinks. She tried to imagine a Vulcan wedding checklist: Unpalatably over spiced food- check. Tepid water—check. Sharp pointy weapons—check.

How much romance could one expect, after all, in a wedding ceremony that needed to allow for the possibility of death and dismemberment preceding the vows? Love might be illogical, but chopping up one of the wedding guests was apparently Vulcan hunky-dory.

She felt a momentary sense of unease recalling the day she'd gone to Spock's cabin with the infamous bowl of soup and seeing forbidding collection of ancient weapons hanging on the dark red draped walls. She'd wondered, just for a moment, if she should have a charged phaser somewhere nearby just in case.

Christine scrolled farther down to the section where Spock had highlighted her part of the marriage vows. She spent the next half hour repeating the strange Vulcan sounds, attempting to duplicate the harsh glottal stops until she was certain she had them memorized. Outside of medical terminology, her Vulcan had never been that good, and she hoped that she wasn't promising to cut his toenails or hand wash his unmentionables.

Unmentionables_._ Her gaze shifted anxiously to the gaily decorated gift bag on her desk. Carefully, she removed the delicate black lace teddy, a gift from Janice and Nyota. There had certainly not been anything like that among the lavishly wrapped gifts seven years ago. It had been a picture perfect Sunday afternoon on Martha's Vineyard, right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Roger's sister Rebecca had hosted an elaborate bridal shower with half of the East Coast social register in attendance.

The gifts of artisan crystal, fine china, gold flatware, and rare priceless antique pieces had been quite overwhelming. It was the first time she'd questioned whether she would ever really fit in Roger Korby's world.

Roger had been a good man, a brilliant man, a dutiful man. He'd been her father's best friend, and had unflinchingly accepted the responsibilities of raising a gangly socially awkward twelve-year-old after the tragic death of her parents. In the crystal clarity of hindsight her relationship with Roger had been like something from a Victorian novel where the older British gentleman ends up marrying his ward.

On her twenty-first birthday Roger proposed, presenting her with an exquisite antique ring that had been in his family for generations. She had accepted out of a sense of admiration and gratitude. She sighed, even after all of these years it was painful to admit that while she'd loved Roger dearly, she'd never been "in love" with him. Had he known that? Was that why he'd chosen to recreate Andrea and not her—to finally have a woman who really loved him?

Had it come full circle now? Tomorrow she would be marrying a man who didn't, and most likely couldn't ever love her. Could she spend the rest of her life with a man who didn't love her? But could she bear to see him with someone else? It was a biological fact that a Vulcan male must take a mate or die. If she said no, he would marry someone else and be lost to her forever.

She did love him, surely that had to count for something? Maybe that could be enough? But the Vulcan marriage bond was for life, and given the disparate lifespan of Vulcans and humans that would be the rest of "her" life. There would be no going back, no magical "do over."

"You wanted this, Christine Chapel, this is your happily ever after."

But as she shut down the padd and made herself a cup of tea she couldn't still the small voice in her that wondered if the old Vulcan proverb was true, what if the having was in fact far less pleasing than the wanting?


	6. Chapter 6

Christine sat up, yet again, and checked the chrono display next to her bed. It was becoming painfully clear that sleep was not on the near horizon.

"Computer, lights on full," she said with a defeated sigh, pushing herself up from the bed and padding into the fresher. Aborting her standard preprogrammed morning sonic shower she opted instead for the small luxury of a real shower. The bump up to senior staff had brought several nice perks, including the small, but private bathroom, and the option of real hot water for the shower. Rank apparently did indeed have its privileges.

Christine allowed the rhythmic pulsing of the steamy water and soft fragrance of the creamy ginger vanilla shower gel to lull her into a few precious moments of idyllic oblivion. She'd taken the liberty of using her medical override code to obtain an extra two minutes of blissful indulgence. Who, after all, would call her on it today, on her "special day?"

The soft beeping sound brought her back to reality. Two second warning, she reached for the worn green terry cloth robe hanging just outside of the shower stall. It wasn't stylish or sexy, but it was serviceable and comfortable and somehow she just couldn't bring herself to get rid of it.

"You're supposed to be blushing." she chided the woman gazing back at her from the small mirror over the sink. A smile crossed her lips at the memory of the ever changing palette of golden, strawberry and platinum blond she'd inflicted on herself over the years before finally giving in and letting her natural brunette take its rightful place. She combed her fingers hurriedly through the damp curls before spritzing on a bit of moisturizer and adding a quick dab of lipstick.

Leonard had officially banished her from Sickbay for the day, but the wedding wasn't until eighteen-hundred hours. There were several experiments she wanted to get set up and fortunately Len's authority didn't extend to the labs. She opened her closet, selecting the simpler uniform of white pants and beige tunic that she favored for working in the lab, then pulled out her dress uniform, making a quick check to see that everything was in order for later.

The lab was surprisingly lonely without Spock. She'd become accustomed to having her workstation online and ready, to a stasis mug of her favorite coffee blend, and to the gentle collegiality that had grown between them in the past month.

Soldiering on, she entered her pass code into her workstation and began laying out the equipment for a new series of experiments.

As always while engrossed in lab work, it was a loud groan of protest from her stomach eight hours later that forced Christine to finish up the last set of slides and head back to her quarters for a late lunch and then prepare herself for the wedding.

She treated herself to another hot water shower, adding override codes until she was certain she was as puckered as a dried apricot. She finished the half eaten chicken sandwich on her desk then threw the dishes in the recycler.

She spent the next half hour tidying up her quarters, and putting fresh linen on the bed. There was the possibility that Spock intended for them to return here after the ceremony, although it was possible he would prefer to bring her to his quarters where the environmental controls were closer to Vulcan normal. Of course it was just as likely that he'd return to the Science station on the Bridge and she'd be returning to these quarters to spend the night alone. Apparently, Vulcan marriage was all about contingency planning.

It would have been nice if her so called fiancé had made the slightest effort to fill her in on some of the pertinent details of their new life together, like, for example if they'd actually be living together. Ironically, after spending almost every free moment together for the past six weeks, with the exception of a very brief encounter in Sickbay when he'd handed her the padd with the details of their swiftly approaching nuptials, she'd had no contact with Spock since the night of his proposal. Her single attempt at an audience with her soon to be husband had caused that increasingly annoying arched eyebrow and his curt pronouncement that such a meeting between them would be "most improper" before snapping off the comm channel.

Christine picked up the small oval holograph of her parents on their wedding day. It was one of her most cherished possession. It was so clear from the picture that her parents had been deeply in love. Her father gazed at his bride with unabashed devotion. Her mother, was radiant wearing the exquisite Venetian lace gown Christine's grandmother and great grandmother had worn. The dress that her mother had tenderly packed away in a stasis bag for Christine's wedding, the dress that Christine had tearfully packed away in her Fleet storage cube in San Francisco when she'd finessed her way onto the Enterprise to find Roger.

How had she let this go so far? What on earth had she been thinking? She had to see Spock, had to talk to him.

"Computer," she said trying to stop the trembling in her voice. "Contact: Commander Spock."

"Spock here."

"Where are you, Spock?"

"I am in the cargo bay, Doctor."

"I need to speak with you, can you come to my quarters."

"That would be most improper. We will be together in less that an hour, we can speak at that time."

"I need to speak with you, now."

"Christine, it is not proper for us to be together before the ceremony, am I not making myself clear?"

"If you aren't here in the next ten minutes there will be no ceremony, am I not making myself clear."

After a few moments silence he responded, "I am on my way."


	7. Chapter 7

"Come." The door slid open to reveal a stern faced and quite obviously annoyed Vulcan at perfect parade rest, hands clasped stiffly behind his back.

"At ease, Commander," she said making no effort to soften the sharp edge of irritation in her voice. She stepped aside to allow him entrance. But he maintained his stance just outside of her quarters.

"Damn it, Spock, get in here. I'm not having this conversation in a public passageway."

"This is most improper, Christine," he said, as he entered, the raised eyebrow apparently effected to lend gravity to his pronouncement, but it only served to fan the flames of her rapidly mounting sense of anger at the injustice of this situation he'd put them in.

"Do you have any idea how damned annoying that eyebrow is?"

"You summoned me here to impart that information?"

"No, I 'summoned' you here to find out what the hell is going on."

"I do not understand your question, perhaps you could clarify?"

"We're getting married in an hour."

"Fifty three minutes twelve seconds to be—"

"Ahhhhh-why, Spock? Why are we getting married?"

"I proposed marriage and you accepted. It is, as your people seem fond of saying, 'hardly rocket science.'"

"Seriously, that was a marriage proposal? Hey Christine, let's get married so we can finish our conversation, did it occur to you to maybe-I don't' know-just ask to come in?"

"Did you not agree that it was the logical course for us to marry?"

"Logical? Do you have the slightest idea how much I hate logic right now? In what possible universe could any of this be 'logical'? Why?"

"Why?"

"Why are you marrying me-hell why am I marrying you? It's…it's insane. How did we end up here?"

"I am here because you summoned me here, and you are here because these are your quarters."

"Not 'here' here –arghhhh. Why did you think it was 'logical' to ask me to marry you?"

"You said loved me."

"Yeah, and you didn't love me. That was a long time ago, I think we can officially pronounce that horse dead."

"Horse—"

"I can't believe I thought I could go through with this. I've got to get off this damn ship while I still have some crumbs of sanity and self respect left."

"You will not marry me?" There was a surprising note of disappointment in his voice that momentarily took the wind from the sails of her anger

"I'm sorry, Spock, I don't know why I let it get this far." She shook her head and sighed. "I guess I've just wanted you for…for so long. I tried to delude myself that it could be enough that I loved you, that somehow there might be a chance that it could work out."

"I understand that my proposal may have been somewhat lacking in romantic nuance. If you would give me a chance to—"

"It's more than just the words, Spock. You once told me it would be illogical to protest against our natures? I didn't understand what you were trying to tell me that day. For years I used to lay awake at night looking for some hidden code in those words, hoping against hope to find something in those words that might mean somehow, deep down, you could love me—but now I finally understand. You were saying that we were just too different—different in ways that can't be breeched no matter how hard we might want to. You tried to tell me, but I didn't want to hear you."

"I do not believe you understand at all."

"This was my fantasy," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "When did I start having such low expectations of life?"

She scooped up the black lace teddy from the bag on the bed and held it up to him. "When you think of me how do you see me, Spock? Do you see a woman, a lover, someone sexy and desirable"-she flung the lacy garment down and gestured to the green bathrobe-"or is this what you see, something worn, past its prime but comfortable, and convenient? I want more-I need more than some marriage of convenience. Can you honestly say, right now, that you're in love with me?"

Trembling she reached out and touched his cheek—he jerked away as if burned by her touch, and shook his head. "No," he said, his voice barely audible.

Christine backed away from him, a renewed surge of anger coursing through her. "I should have known. Damn you, Spock. Damn you," she said choking back a sob.

"Christine—"

"Just get out! Get out of her now before I call Security."

He turned slowly toward the door, his momentary expression of disbelief suddenly hardening into the impassive Vulcan mask she knew so well. She struggled to hold off the tears she knew would come. He would not see her cry; she would not give him that—she would at least have that small victory.

Suddenly he turned back toward her swiftly closing the distance between them. Before she could protest he had her up against the cabin wall, his kiss fierce and hungry as he moved against her.

His hands, gods of every universe, his hands were everywhere, moving possessively over her body, leaving trails of exquisite fire in their wake. He moved his tongue, slightly rougher and warmer than her own, insistently against her lips until she opened her mouth allowing him deepen the kiss, bringing a warm taste like cloves and a subtle tang of copper.

She raked her fingernails down his back, eliciting a husky moan, as she moved lower.

A pleasured gasp escaped her lips as he slid his hands up under the back of her soft cotton t-shirt, his fingers frantically fumbling for the fastenings of her brassiere.

"Front, "she somehow managed to mumble without breaking the kiss. He nodded his understanding, thrusting his tongue against hers for a few moments more, before breaking the kiss and pulling up the front of her t-shirt. He fumbled with the fastenings for a few moments before she felt warm hands sliding over her breasts, then his warmer wonderfully wet mouth as he sucked tenderly. She felt an aching stab of disappointment as he pulled away.

"_Vaksurik,_" he whispered, his voice low and rumbling. Though she didn't understand the Vulcan word, she inferred from the unmistakable appreciation in his eyes that he was definitely pleased with what he saw.

"Yes," she sighed, as he began trailing slow wet kisses up along her neck, his teeth grazed her earlobe then began softly nibbling on her ear.

"When I have pictured you in my thoughts," he said, his breath hot and hard, his voice a low earthy groan that sent chills down her spine, "there was no clothing of any sort involved."

Gently, he maneuvered her back around to face him. He leaned his forehead against hers, eyes half lidded. His gaze burned her as he moved again to reclaim her lips.

So good—how long had it been, how long had her body hungered for the touch of another? Yet, she couldn't stop the small voice telling her this wasn't right.

"Stop," she said, pulling away from the kiss, though the rest of her body wasn't necessarily onboard with the idea. "I mean it," she added, struggling to catch her breath. "Stop.' Her Fleet training kicking in, she struck him hard in the Vulcan equivalent of the solar plexus with the heels of her hands, leveraging herself against the bulk head for maximum thrust. She was positioning her knee for her next move when he released her and jumped back.

Her head was spinning and she leaned back against the bulkhead to regain her equilibrium. She was suddenly aware that her bra was hanging open and her shirt was pushed up leaving her breasts in full view. She turned away from him and attempted to refasten it, but apparently, in his haste to remove the garment, he'd bent or pulled off all of the metal fasteners. She settled for smoothing down her shirt then paused for a moment to reclaim a modicum of dignity before turning back to face him.

"What the hell, Spock? Are you—is it that seven-year thing?" she asked, kicking herself for not thinking to check his most recent hormonal and neural scans when she'd had the chance.

"The _pon farr_," he answered quietly, his gaze fixed on the decking. She couldn't tell if he has having some trouble with his eyes, or simply was too embarrassed to look her in the eye. "No, it is not the pon farr. I am… several years from that time."

"Then what was… that?"

"I do no wish to speak of it. I am sorry, but it is a very private matter, something…something that is not to be spoken."

"Well, you can save all that deep dark Vulcan secret crap for some other time when you didn't just rip of my damn bra."

"It is not a Starfleet regulation undergarment."

"Well feel free to put me on report, Commander-right after you tell me what the hell just happened."

"S_hon-ha-lak_."

"Shan ha…" Christine struggled to repeat the alien words.

"_Shon- ha- lak."_

_"_Shon ha lak_?"_

He was silent, and staring intently down at the decking again. She was about to call him on it when bent to retrieve one of the missing fasteners, examined it for a moment, then held it out to her.

"The 'shon ha lak'?..." She ignored his outstretched hand.

"In the time of Surak-"

"Seriously? Please tell me there's a short version?"

He responded with an angry huff and yet another reprise of the Vulcan eyebrow of indignation. But something happening lower begged her attention, the obvious and unmistakably masculine bulge that even the lower cut uniform tunic could not conceal.

"You…can"—she stammered—"I mean, not just, at the seven years?"

His cheeks flushed pale verdigris as he followed her gaze and grasped the implication of her question. He moved slowly across the cabin, his expression becoming more peevish and less self conscious as he dropped into the chair beside her desk, his hands folded and placed strategically in his lap. "Why would you think otherwise?"

"Well-it's not like you ever…you know…made any moves in that…you know, direction. Well, not with me at least."

"You mean because I behaved as a gentleman?"

"Gentleman, are you kidding me? A 'gentleman' brings flowers and pays for dinner. He doesn't just out of the blue propose marriage so he can come in and talk particle dynamics—and by the way that was absolutely the very worst marriage proposal of all time."

"It was bioethics, and your lack of satisfaction with the marriage proposal has been duly noted. And it was not, as you posit, 'out of the blue.' I considered it carefully for some time."

"You considered it carefully and that was what you came up with? I'd hate to hear the proposals that didn't make it to the final round."

"May I ask, if the proposal was so grievously substandard why did you agree that it was logical?"

"I didn't agree it was logical—I was trying to say 'have you lost your fucking Vulcan mind?' but I was in shock and couldn't speak."

"Christine, that language is most unseemly."

"Yeah, right, because the big problem here is my unseemly language. I'll tell you what's unseemly: it's you being such an insensitive horse's ass," she said as she settled herself in the chair on the other side of the desk. "If that's the way Vulcan men propose it's a first class miracle your race didn't die out ten thousand years ago."

"Vulcans marriages are arranged in childhood by the families." He set the small fastener from her bra on the desk and was moving it about with the tip of his fingernail, studying it intently as if it were some alien lifeform.

"It is extremely rare that a bonding need be arranged between adults, and even in that case it is accomplished through representatives of the respective houses. It is even less common that a Vulcan male would seek to take a mate of his own choosing. There is little precedent in Vulcan culture on the proper way to make such- arrangements, with a Vulcan woman, much less with a human female."

"Your own father married a human female, Spock. And I'm pretty sure if he'd proposed to your mother like that we wouldn't be sitting having this conversation. Not even a damn kiss—and you are a surprisingly good kisser."

"I admit that I proceeded on this course of action with insufficient information on the process and that lack of data appears to have resulted in a less that optimal outcome."

"A 'less than optimal outcome'-for heaven's sake, this isn't a chess game, this is our lives. So, this 'shon ha lak'—the short version?"

"_Shon-ha-lak_ is the conscious freeing of _Aitlungiv-tvi-rivak_—"

"In Standard, Spock."

"Do you wish me to explain this or not, Christine?"

"What good is the explanation if I can't understand what you're saying?"

"Logical," he said, nodding tightly. "It is the conscious act of freeing _Aitlungiv-tvi-rivak_, which has no direct Standard translation, but a close approximation would be to say it the part of the Vulcan mind that controls certain emotions and desires, specifically, sexual desire."

"But you said that you were able—"

"The ability is always there, but the desire, it is a complicated matter. I'm not certain of how to explain."

"Well, try." She reached across the desk and snatched the tiny fastener away from him, and caught just a fragment of an aborted attempt to hoist the eyebrow at the loss of his new toy.

"Vulcans, as a rule, do not engage in… sexual relations outside of a bondmate relationship."

"Never?"

"Vulcan males are trained in mental disciplines to repress desires of a sexual nature until joining with their chosen mate. For some, the actual consummation of the bonding comes at the occasion of the first pon farr. Others choose to marry and consummate the bonding sooner. The engaging of the _shon-ha-lak_ allows the necessary connection to…emotions and desires that facilitate the…physical consummation of the bonding. It is why it is necessary for a male to remain separate from his mate during the days before the joining. The control of the male is seriously compromised during that time, as you saw."

"Everything was so good, Spock, we had our work, and we were becoming friends. I thought I was finally over you."

"You were over me?"

"No, you big idiot, I wasn't really over you. I'm not over you, that's the problem."

"I do not understand? You said-"

"Okay, let me lay it out for you. I'm in love with you. I'll probably always be in love with you. You're like this black hole that sucks the good sense right out of me. If this was a Greek play it would be my tragic flaw. You, on the other hand, you don't love me, but for some unfathomable reason you've asked me to marry you-a marriage with no escape hatch for the next sixty or seventy years. I'm not particularly proud to admit that I actually considered going through with it. But I meant what I said before. I need more, Spock, I deserve more.

"I should have left the ship after Kirk demoted me. I had other offers, but I stayed, stupidly, hopefully…"

"Christine—"

"You don't love me, right?"

"No," he responded softly, "I cannot. It is not within the nature of a Vulcan male to experience the type of emotional connection you seek, except within a bond-linked relationship. For my people, _t'hy'la _in its most profound aspect is the joining of bondmates into complete oneness. It is within the sanctuary of that unique, unbreakable connection of the bond that affection and caring can be nurtured and grow.

"Your people love first and then marry, yet most marriages between humans do not endure. I have offered you that which I have within myself to give—I understand now that it was insufficient, and I beg forgiveness for my presumption."

He rose from the chair, smoothing his uniform tunic of nonexistent wrinkles, his movements uncharacteristically wooden. "I should inform the Captain of the change in plans."

Christine's response was interrupted by the sound of the door chime and the unmistakable sound of giggling from the other side of the door.


	8. Chapter 8

"Come," she said, the doors parting to reveal Janice Rand. She was dressed in a long silky Vulcan styled robe of deep claret shot through with fine copper threads. She approached Christine, a padd in one hand and a heavily embroidered length of cloth over her right arm.

"Auch huc vdhree," she said, her expression surprisingly solemn given the raucous laughter Christine had heard just before the door opened. "Chapel t'shrezzch-oh hell, screw it." Frowning she tapped the screen of the padd from which she appeared to be reading. "I don't care what Commander Spock wants, I can't speak Vul-oh…Commander, sorry, I didn't think you would be here."

"Christine Chapel," Janice said, raising her right hand and forming her fingers into the Vulcan Ta'al. "I bring the wish for length of days and prosperity to Thee and to thy House. I come in honor, bearing the…Cee"-she frowned and shook her head-"no, the Say tusky orfishy-''

"Sai-tukh orifih-kil skann," Spock said.

"Yeah." Janice laughed. "That…thing he just said, which the Tradition dictates as plight to the troth of the noble house of jkhe–oh for the love of every god of every universe, give me a break. There's no way this is a word."

"It is pronounced _hei-di-Ni'ikhirch_, Chief Rand. It is my family name."

"Sorry, sir. As it has been since the time of Surak, the joining of these two noble houses honors the Tradition and thus honors us all on this day. This is the way of the Vulcan people."

She gave a half bow, handed the length of cloth to Christine, then moved through the doorway and stood next to Spock. "I don't think you're supposed to be here, sir," she said frowning. "It's bad luck."

"Indeed," he said clasping his hands behind his back.

"Daughter of the House of Chapel: Peace and Long life to Thee and thy House."

Nyota was standing in the doorway wearing a claret colored robe that matched the one Janice wore. She too was reading from a padd, and carried a long stasis bag draped over her arm. "I come to prepare Thee, child, to be joined to he who is to be your husband. Let all rejoice in the uniting of the houses. May you come together to the oneness and bring honor and joy to the Ancestors of both Houses. The Way of Logic has brought us from the Time of Darkness into Enlightenment and Peace. The Way of Logic makes all things clear. This is the Vulcan heart, this is the way of our people."

"I think that's your cue to skedaddle, Commander," Uhura said in a stage whisper as she handed the stasis bag to Christine.

"Yes," Spock said turning his gaze to Christine. "I…must update the Captain on the situation. Doctor Chapel, ladies."

Christine watched numbly as the steel door slid closed behind him.

"Come on Chris, open it, we've barely got twenty minutes to get you ready. I can't wait to see it on you."

"See what, Ny?"

"The dress, your wedding dress-the Captain said it cost Spock almost a year's pay to get it here in time for the ceremony."

Christine reached tentatively for the small touch screen to open the bag. There was a soft click, and then a faint swooshing sound as the airtight seal opened. She was suddenly surrounded by the faint, sweetly familiar scent of jasmine and lily-of-the-valley.

"Oh it's beautiful, Christine," Janice said, her eyes misting with tears as Christine carefully removed the heirloom Venetian lace gown from the stasis container.

"But how…" She hugged the lacey garment to herself, breathing in the sweet scent of her mother, of a family she'd known for far too short a time. She bolted from the room, the automatic door parting barely in time to avoid a collision.

"Spock," she called down the hall where the doors of the turbolift were about to close. He took a single step forward to keep the door from closing as she sprinted the rest of the way down the passageway.

"How?"-she paused for a moment trying to catch her breath—"how could you know about my mother's wedding dress?"

He stepped from the turbolift into the passageway. "I saw it, or more precisely I saw it in your mind during the time we shared consciousness. I understood that it held special meaning for you."

"It does. Nyota said you spent a fortune to get it here."

"As I believed it would please you, the expense was of no consequence."

"So, you might be able to… love me…eventually?"

"I will love you."

"You sound pretty sure of yourself."

"It is simply the nature of the bond."

"So, how long will it take? Maybe a Vulcan woman can wait around a couple of hundred years, but I don't have the luxury of quite so much time."

"It will not take two hundred years," he said with just the barest up tick of his lips. "I suspect it will occur sooner rather than later. He brushed his fingers over the bodice of the dress, tracing the intricately woven pattern of the ecru lace. "_Vaksurik_," he said softly, then trailed his fingers up along her hand to her forearm, continuing to move them in an easy rhythm. "I believe," he said, pulling his hand away and looking up to meet her gaze, "it will be much sooner."

"So this…wedding…is there a cake?"

"I am not a barbarian, Christine, of course there is a cake."

"And you've thought about me…naked?"

"Are you asking if I have entertained thoughts of you being naked, or rather if I have entertained thoughts of you while I was naked?"

And just like that it was back, the hint of amusement in his eyes, the faintest trace of a smile. Ease. "Either one, take your pick," she said, struggling to keep a straight face.

"Both, actually," he said.

"So…I guess maybe I'd better go get dressed?"

"Indeed, as should I. Christine Chapel, I shall await thee at the appointed place."

"Spock, of the unpronounceable last name, I will meet thee at the appointed place."

He bowed formally before entering the turbolift.

"Wait," she called out as the door began to close. "Where is the 'appointed place'?"

"Cargo bay seven."

"Cargo bay seven?" she called after him as the doors closed. "We're getting married in a cargo bay? That better be one hell of a wedding cake."

Author's note: _Spock's family name in this story, hei-di-Ni'ikhirch, is the creation of Cheree Cargill and used with her most gracious permission._


	9. Chapter 9

It was, by Vulcan standards, a "fairy tale wedding", which is to say that the bride and groom were actually married to each other as planned and no one was maimed or killed during the proceedings. Spock's parents joined them via a subspace video relay, an exorbitantly costly process that Spock felt certain had been at his mother's insistence. Apparently, Vulcan men spared no expense in pleasing their women; it was an unexpected characteristic yet had a certain logic she was beginning to understand. His woman…she really was his woman now, but she could already feel the flowering of the fledging bond between them, and understood that he was hers as well.

She marveled at the spectacular panorama of twinkling stars overhead, and the soft light of the moon over the Arno. Spock had managed to transform the empty cargo bay into a starlit summer night on the steps of San Miniato al Monte, the church overlooking Florence where her parents had been married. And it was, indeed, a hell of a wedding cake.

She felt an odd sense of distress, and turned to find her new husband looking quite indignant as the Captain and Len howled with laughter.

"Are you in need of rescue, my husband?"

"Aw, come on, Chris," McCoy said with a Cheshire cat grin. "Jim and I were just giving him 'the talk.'"

"What talk?" Christine asked, fixing McCoy and Kirk with a suspicious frown.

"Just a little—you know, pep talk," Kirk said.

"What kind of a 'pep talk'?"

"Just some advice for the wedding night, gotta make sure this ol' hobgoblin here treats my girl right," McCoy said as he gave Spock a chummy clap on the shoulder. Judging by the sharply arched eyebrow and put out expression on Spock's face she could well imagine the indecorous nature of the "pep talk."

"Right, because the two of your have such a stellar track record in the marriage department."

"She's got a point there, Bones," Kirk said with that killer smile that was his galactic get out of jail free card.

"You throw a nice shindig, Spock," McCoy said gazing out over the cityscape below.

"Shindig, Doctor?"

"The party, Spock. It sure beats the hell out of your last wedding. How the heck did you do all of this? Here we are standing in the middle a cargo bay, but we're in Florence, it's …unbelievable."

"It is a prototype for a new holographic technology. Starfleet wishes to explore its potential for use on long term voyages."

"I read through the paperwork when it came though, but I had no idea it was capable of anything like this, it's so…real."

"There are of course, numerous bugs to be worked out of the programming, but I believe there is tremendous potential for using such virtual reality technology to help crewmembers cope with the psychological stresses of longer missions in deep space."

Kirk signaled to the young ensign tending the bar for another round. "Chris, how about another drink?"

"Thanks, but nothing more for me, I've got Alpha shift tomorrow."

"You do not." Spock said, looking smug even for a Vulcan.

"I don't?"

"You are relieved from duty for the next seventy-two hours, as am I."

"It was a cheap wedding gift," Kirk said with another flash of the dazzling smile.

"From both of us," McCoy said, wrapping his arm around Christine for a fatherly hug.

"It is much appreciated, "Spock said, gently disengaging her from McCoy's embrace.

"Geez, Mr. Killjoy, can't a fella give the bride a kiss?"

"No," he answered, with a sternly raised eyebrow. "You may not."

"It's for good luck, you green-blooded—why do I even bother? It's like talking to a damn wall."

"It is as illogical to allow another male intimacy with my wife to garner a benefit based solely on antiquated superstition as it is to hold a conversation with a non sentient object."

Christine struggled, but failed to contain a laugh, not sure which was more hilarious, a jealous Vulcan husband, or McCoy's sputtering invective.

"Gentlemen," Spock said, placing one hand on McCoy's shoulder, and the other on Kirk's forearm. "I am most grateful for you presence here…and for your friendship."

For the first time in all of the years she'd known him, McCoy was speechless, at least for a moment. She saw his eyes soften as he said something to Spock, his voice too low for her to hear. She felt a gentle swell of …happiness, or the Vulcan equivalent, from Spock through their new bond and saw a soft sweet grin spread across Kirk's face.

"Well, looks like the buffet is open," Kirk said as the three men pulled apart.

"Is there anything edible?" McCoy asked.

"There is a combination of Vulcan and terran delicacies, Doctor. I feel confident that you will find something to your liking."

He nodded to Kirk and McCoy then took Christine's arm and guided her toward the table with the cake.

"It really was a beautiful wedding, Spock."

"I am gratified that the arrangements pleased you."

"So, I'm relieved of duty for seventy-two hours?"

"I believe that is what I said, wife."

"Hmm…seventy-two hours…what shall I do with all of that free time, Commander?" She tapped her lip softly. "I do have some experiments ready to go in the lab."

"I believe I have some experiments ready to go as well, Doctor, although they are not in the lab."

"Fascinating, and what sort of experiments might these be?"

"Biology."

"I like biology. Where might these experiments be set up?"

"I plan to conduct them in the VIP suite in guest quarters."

"The VIP suite? They must be high priority experiments."

"Very high priority…I must warn you, however, that if we do not get the experiment underway soon it is entirely possible that they could end up being conducted in the turbolift."

"The turbolift? That sounds a bit cramped for the sort of experiment I had in mind. So your experiment is, shall we say, 'time sensitive'?"

"It would appear so. I believe it would be prudent to go to our quarters now, my wife."

"Agreed, husband, but I'd like to get a piece of cake to take with me."

"Get two pieces."

"But, it's chocolate cake. I thought chocolate made Vulcans…oh."

Christine scooped two slices of the decadent looking chocolate cake onto a plate, blew Jan and Nyota a kiss and followed Spock, who was moving at quite a clip, to the turbolift. She was entering the code for her quarters when he moved her hand from the panel.

"We are going to the guest quarters, Christine," he said with a puzzled frown.

"I just need to pick up some clothes first."

"If my experiment goes as planned, you will not have need for clothing for the next seventy-two hours."

"I see," she said as dragged her index finger through the thick dark chocolate frosting, scooping up a generous sampling. Slowly, seductively, she moved the confection laden digit close to her mouth, licking her lips then flashing a wicked smile. He was watching her with what appeared to be amused fascination, though perhaps more titillated than amused considering the slight dilation of his eyes and his increased, and very audible, respiration.

She touched the icing lightly to her lips, allowing the tip of her tongue to glide over the creamy frosting. Damn, real chocolate, not the replicated crap. Well played. She licked her lips again, then moved the finger back to her mouth. She started to open her mouth, but then thought of a much more enjoyable way to consume the treat. Spock's eyes widened in surprise as she smeared the chocolate across his lips then leaned into him, covering his sweet lips with an open mouthed kiss.

Silently, she broke the kiss, then programmed the code for guest quarters into the turbolift. He leaned into her pressing his mouth against hers for a long, deep kiss that he hesitantly broke as the lift doors parted.

"Tasty," he said as he pulled her from the turbolift into the passage way to the VIP suite.

There is an old Vulcan adage from the Time of Surak that says sometimes having is not so pleasing a thing, after all, as wanting. This, Christine knew with perfect certainty as the doors of the turbolift swooshed closed behind them, was not one of those times.


End file.
